


Spitball Fest

by aqhrodites



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Detention, Developing Friendships, Gen, Inspired by the deleted scenes, Pre-Canon, Pre-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Unintended Friendship, and having to sit through thinly disguised tales of Harrington's school embarrassments, but when he gets a phone call they don't let it go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-11 00:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12310851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqhrodites/pseuds/aqhrodites
Summary: He's already missing his basketball game and he's already anticipating the reprimanding earful he's sure to get once he's home And on top of that, when he enters the empty classroom, he realizes that it all just got worse. Because Flash is sure that hedeliberatelyrequested to not have detention with his nemesis—on this day altogether, actually, because of his game—but sees how that fucking plans out. It gets only worse on this end out, he's sure, because two worse things happen:One: sitting in a desk in a desk nearer to the back of the room is his nemesis, is the fucking thorn in his side. Michelle sits a a desk scribbling in a sketchbook.Reason number two is the only thing worse than getting wrongfully assigned detention: having detention with Mr. Harrington's oversharing about his ex-wife, Tabitha.(Inspired from the deleted scenes.)





	Spitball Fest

Flash shows up to detention with a bruised left cheekbone, a still-throbbing right shoulder blade, and three stolen cans of Red Bull hidden away in his backpack.

He enters with a death glare, irritated, a terminally disappointed shoulder-sag, and intended door-slam, it opening, bouncing off the wall.

He concludes that this just hadn't been his week—especially since arriving here. And he had _deliberately_ asked to not attend the session today, in part because of the rivalry basketball game he's supposed to play in and is currently missing from—had been scolded by his coach too, after trying to sneak onto the court, but is stopped and scolded by his coach to _stop pouting, dammit! I already have to deal with childish attitude from my three year daughters!_ ; Flash hadn't expected his coach to know of him attending detention so soon at least, and that's why he's currently half dressed in his uniform jersey and half in knee-length cargo shorts—and the second part because Flash hadn't wanted to attend the same session as the one who caused his detention:

He hadn't wanted to attend with Michelle Jones.

She's sitting at a desk near a corner beside a tall bookshelf, on the same side of the room as the door. Besides her, the classroom is empty and quiet; besides the ceiling fan turning and squeaking, there's no other sound. Her head bops slightly along with whatever music plays through her headphones; she's still wearing that same black beanie hat he had made fun of earlier that day—the one with the two puffballs for ears; and she's in an indigo cardigan, a turquoise v-neck that he also had mocked her for, and is folding down a corner of her paper to scribble a side note in blue ink.

Flash rolls his shoulders, tightly grips the single strap of his book bag slug over his shoulder, and makes his way across the classroom to a desk _specifically_ far away from her. Flopping into the chair with a sigh, he drags his hands down his face, pulling at his eyelids and mouth. He's already anticipating the reprimanding earful he's mostly certain he's to receive once detention ends and on the way home. On his phone, he's already sent a text message. The fact that it had been left on _Read_ did nothing but work his nerves more.

Flash sighs loudly, dramatically, before flopping forward across the desk.

Michelle doesn't look up. And he wonders if she can hear him, if she's deliberately ignoring him.

And of course, this all gets worse. For one—he had requested to _not_ spend the next few _hours_ with his nemesis, the fucking thorn in his side; to not attend detention on this day altogether, actually, because of his game too, but sees how that fucking planned out. Two—reason number two comes through the door, and can be shared between both students as they share reflecting looks of shock, followed by pouting as their supervisor for the evening enters, a styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand.

Because the thing that's worse than getting wrongfully assigned detention is having detention with Mr. Harrington and his oversharing about his ex-wife, Tabitha.

And of course, Flash is the one to speaks up first about it. He doesn't bother raising a hand or waiting until the man has taken a seat at the large wooden desk at the front of the room before he's blurting, " _you're_ supposed to be here? What happened to Mrs. Gardner? I was told she was supposed to be in charge of detention."

Mr. Harrington freezes en route and has to take a moment to process the question. "Mrs. Gardner is _pregnant_. You know that."

"So?" the teen pushes.

" _So_ ," Harrington repeats, almost in mocking, Flash swears, "there needed to be some shuffling."

Flash huffs exaggeratedly, putting up a front that he's unconvinced.

Michelle glances up for a moment before returning back to her sketchbook.

"Do you have a problem?" the man inquires, raising a brow in challenge. But both students know that he's more passive than daring, and thus the threat is hollow to Flash.

"Yeah. A lot, actually."

"Well too bad. Detention starts _now_." He rolls his sleeve back to read his wristwatch. "No talking. And no electronics," Harrington appoints to Michelle next.

Her pencil finally pauses. She slides her headphones from her ears to her neck. "It's only us..."

Flash rolls his eyes, folds his arms, and continues to pout.

"No talking," Harrington repeat, in response to her.

Michelle rolls her eyes. The teen crosswise from her sucks his teeth loudly, purposely. The teacher leans back a little too far in the desk chair, his reflexes causing him to jolt, spilling half of his coffee down his baby blue button-down.

Michelle thinks, today, the man appears as dull and as stale as the cheap coffee they keep in the teacher's lounge.

* * *

 

If there's one thing that's worse than having detention for the next four hours with the person who caused it, it's attending detention under Mr. Harrington.

And it isn't particularly that that he's a _bad_ teacher, or even a _bad guy_ , but—

Harrington's phone chirps for the eighth goddamn time, him acting as if he's intent on not answering it, his fingers entwined atop the desk, and Michelle is _just close_ from saying something she shouldn't, of snapping something that could that would earn her another session, probably. Harrington does a pathetically bad job at pretending to be unperturbed as she asks, instead, "That's the _eighth_ time. Are you going to answer it _now_?"

"No talking," is his answer.

As his phone goes off again somewhere in his bag beneath the desk, she _throws_ her pencil down. Her glare intensifies, an almost stare-down begins between the two, the phone _chirping, chirping, chirping_ in the background.

It's only been an hour into the detention session.

"Bet it's your therapist," Flash chimes.

"He doesn't see a therapist," Michelle corrects, not looking away, and secretly feeling prideful when her staring begins to make the teacher visibly uncomfortable.

"A counselor, a—whoever you see during a divorce—"

"An attorney."

"—And," Flash continues as if she hadn't corrected him, but then pauses, and squints at her and asks, " _how_ do you know this!?"

"Who doesn't?" She finally breaks her glare to roll her eyes to his direction.

" _I_ didn't."

"Yeah, like _that's_ really surprising," and her eyes roll back to lock with the teacher's. It's a sarcastic scold spoken too calmly.

Flash doesn't have a reply ready, so he only sneers at her.

Harrington's phone rings once more. It's been alternating between wind chimes of text notifications and the prolonged chirping of phone calls going to voicemail.

Taking advantage of Flash's reaction, the man speaks up, "that's _not_ my therapist—"

Michelle blinks, taken aback. "Oh, wait, I was _wrong_ — _?!_ "

"Not my therapist—"

"Oh, so your attorney, then?" Michelle corrects, taking advantage of his brief pause, but he continues on.

"— _Not_ my attorney— _dammit_ —either!"

"This is a _school_ , Mr. Harrington!" Flash instigates.

And then the man is becoming visibly flustered and his sudden unease is making him appear _immensely_ guilty. "I'm not going through a divorce! This isn't—why're you—this wasn't—this is beyond either of your concern!" He's cut off as his phone goes off again.

By now, both students are watching him, waiting, daring him to go further. He knows they are silently judging him.

So, Harrington hurries for his phone before it reaches that the final ring. He's still babbling out excuses, and chiding the two about children needing to stay in their place, that he doubts it is his attorney anyway, how they both ask too many questions. There's a quick moment taken as he reads the screen. And then there's a sigh of relief. And then a glare back at the two.

"So, is it Tabitha?" Michelle questions.

"Who's Tabitha?" Flash mumbles more than asks loud enough.

In response, Michelle mocks with jutted lip, " _who's Tabitha_ _?_ " She's twirling an ink pen between her fingers, two more set out in front of her.

The other stares at her for a second before giving a dismissive, rhetoric, "why do I even talk to you?"

And Michelle is quick to retort, enthusiastically, and the flats of her palms clapping her desktop. "That is a _damn good question_ I was literally _just_ wondering myself!"

The other looks as if he's straining himself from spitting a comeback.

Mr. Harrington lifts an unimpressed brow, closing his flip phone. "It was neither my attorney _nor_ my wife..."

"Ex-wife, right?" the girl smiles all too innocently.

"Do you want to make it another day in detention?"

And her face wipes clean, bows her head. "No sir," she shuts up.

Flash stares for a second, determining whether he should question about this entire exchange or not. His shoulder is no longer hurting, and the bruise on his cheek is but a faint, forgotten throb now.

The teacher sits straighter, folds his arms, scratches at his growing beard. "Since you want to talk so much, why don't you tell us why you're here today. Humor us—humble you."

Michelle shifts against the white painted brick wall so that it's no longer freezing her bare shoulders, slinging her forearm around the back of her chair and wedged between herself and the bookshelf. And, almost _too_ confidently, she tells, "I punched Flash."

She gets a kick at the flicker of astonishment across the man's face. "W—well you care to explain why you punched him? He's a teammate of yours, after all."

And the other student by now is _fairly_ sure that she doesn't look him in the eye _on purpose_ and for the mere fact that she _knows_ the reaction he's to give as she explains, "who _wouldn't_?"

Harrington orders her to answer seriously. And she mumbles something under her breath about him trying to be a counselor again.

"Because Flash is an asshole. No, wait. Because he's a wuss, too. A _punk bitch_. He's an absolute, all-around, big-headed, son—"

" _Michelle_."

And she shuts her jaw. Then, she's given one last time to explain herself.

She inhales long and deep, looking back at her open sketchbook, then gives, "he threw a paper football and hit me directly in my eye."

Immediately, and like a too-eager tattler, Harrington's face whips to the other side of the room. "Is this true?"

The other teen sucks his teeth loudly, slouching further in his chair.

"You know this can be a strike against you for remaining on the team," Harrington gives, meaning the school's Academic Decathlon team both students have been a part of for some time now.

And at this, Flash sucks his teeth louder. "But she _punched_ me, too!"

"And you _both_ could receive strikes for misconduct."

Michelle is composed as she explains, "I only punched him _after_ he kept trying to vandalize my hat." She means that he joked he was going to cut off the puffballs onto of her hat, daring with a pair of scissors hovering over her head, making up the excuse that he couldn't see, and name-calling her a tree.

"And what did you do in retaliation, to start this," already knowing his students and not needing to question if there had been one.

"She tried to trip me going down the stairs," Flash blurts.

"And it would have worked, too," she grumbles.

As far as the man knows, this juvenile back-and-forth between the two has been going on for years.

Mr. Harrington closes his eyes. Sighs. "No more talking. Break is over."

Both's necks whip to the front of the room.

Flash questions first, "what _break_?"

Then it's Michelle. "We didn't even eat anything."

Mr. Harrington sighs deeply again before telling they can leave for a quick, thirty minute recess.

He looks at his watch, the clock hanging on the wall broken. Only an hour has gone by.

* * *

 

When they return, Michelle's hand in a bag of Lays Baked chips and they're told that detention will resume as normal—with no talking, no electronics, and only homework if there's any needed to be done.

Flash is nearly forty minutes into completing his homework when Harrington's phone rings again. It's an annoying, high-pitched ringtone chosen from the list of default options that makes Michelle jolt and grow irritated. He excuses himself to take the call, but not trusting either student, and leaves the door open. Michelle stands to crumple the bag, walk it to the trashcan at the front of the room, and takes that as an excuse to wonder near to the door and eavesdrop—if she's stuck in this room for the next two hours, she might as well make it interesting, right?

She overhears Harrington mention something about scheduling, a family-treasured box unable to be located in his house, and a cable/internet bill.

Flash watches from his corner of the room. And when Harrington's phone snaps closed, he silently watches Michelle briskly walked back to her seat. Flash erases his recent sentence and rewrites it.

Harrington can immediately tell that there had been movement in the class, and asks about it. Innocently, Flash tells that he's been here the entire time _like a good student_. Michelle shrugs, tells that had been in her seat the whole time.

Upon this, Flash gives a coughing fit, _very_ subtly slipping in _"_ _lie."_

"You want to run that by me again, second-best?" The name is a reference to how he always comes in second to trivia, to the card game Spit, to Uno.

Flash flips her off before Harrington can see, and they're both told to be quiet.

"Fuck you," she hisses.

"You're not my type."

Addressing the teacher now, Michelle continues, "was that a good or bad call?"

The teacher doesn't answer right away. "It's a none-of-your-business call."

"Was it Tabitha again?" Flash asks.

He glares.

"Were you having a _friendly_ argument?" If one didn't know Michelle, they might have taken her caring tone as genuine.

Instead, Harrington just _glares_.

"it was your divorce lawyer, wasn't it?" Flash pipes up. "Ya know, my mom has this friend that could—"

" _Enough_."

"Hey, hey!" Her hands lazily raise in defense. "I was just asking a question. Since we have to stay here together for the next two hours, I thought to do what you said: humor you." She shrugs, successfully feigning innocence.

"Well that wasn't humor." He sounds honestly dejected, and so she decides to back off.

Michelle acknowledges with a nod. And then the room falls quiet again.

* * *

 

It lasts as long until Harrington hears high-pitched ringing in his ears, until the steady, unrhythmic squeaking of the ceiling fan, and Flash's noisy flipping pages gets to him.

It's nearly another hour later when he clears his throat for attention.

"Michelle...you were telling how you both got here," he begins, and the girl pauses from her math homework. "I was just wondering—and what happened for you both to land in here?"

Her answer is simple. "I punched Flash in the shoulder. He tripped on some papers on the floor and hit his face on the lockers."

Well.

That explains the ebbing red bruise on the student's face.

"You don't seem sorry for that," Harrington notes aloud.

And Michelle shrugs, unbothered. "They thought I beat him up. And after he bullied me..." and she shrugs again. "Why?"

Harrington tells that there was no particular reason that made that question arise. "I was thinking—you said he shot a paper football at your eye. And I can't tell there's any injury."

She gives an excuse that she had put ice on it earlier, and Flash, being _too manly_ , refused to see the doctor. (Really is had been embarrassment, but she isn't going to say that aloud.)

Harrington turns to the other teen, and asks, "so what's _your_ side? Is that true?"

Flash appears hesitant as he lowers his book to his desk, gives a little nod. He's questioned again and urged to reveal why Michelle had been intent on injuring him back, why he hit her in the eye in the first place. After two backtracks and blaming her once more, he tells, "I got a lot of people to chant about how she throws like a girl during a game of dodgeball."

Michelle's mouth opens, appalled. That hadn't been what happened.

The teacher turns to her now. "That's—"

Now her jaw is slacked for a totally different reason. And she cuts him off, voice firm but not loud, "that's not what happened. He popped my bra!"

"That's— _that's_ what started—that's all it is?" Harrington doesn't seem disturbed. "Michelle, you've got to not get mad at every little thing. If that's all it was, this whole dispute is—"

"That's _completely_ something to get upset about."

Now it's Flash who tries to defend himself, trying to get out that he'd never done such thing.

But Michelle isn't finished, and just talks over him. "And for you to say that, Mr. Harrington— _what the hell_. For a science teacher, you're embarrassingly behind."

Of course, the man doesn't favor her last comment. "Excuse me— _behind_ _?_ "

"With the times," she clarifies. "That could be counted as being misogynistic, what you said. And not caring for the wellbeing of the students put under your care." She more-so says it as a spontaneous chasten.

He scoffs. "I wasn't being misogynistic. _Misogynistic_ would be if I said that _you_ ," he waves his hand, gesturing deliberately at her as if that would emphasize his point, "and yours are blowing this all way out of proportion."

"No, that would be racist," she corrects, tone still leveled.

"I didn't _mean_ —I meant about this gender thing is. It's getting out of control."

Michelle props her elbows on top her desk and asks, "what gender thing?" but he continues.

"I mean, like, girls wanting to kill everybody, and guys kissing guys, there's—"

"That's homophobic, you know." It's Flash that speaks up this time. And, receiving a questioning look from Michelle, he snaps, "what? Only _Michelle_ can be politically aware?"

Instead of replying directly, she chides, "I told you not to call me that, _Eugene,_ " calling Flash by his first name. Then, under her breath as she picks up her calculator and returns back to her homework, she mumbles, "no wonder your wife left you."

Flash rolls his eyes. "Whatever, I'm not talking to you." He turns towards the teacher. " _Anyways_ —" He's cut off, Harrington hearing Michelle's side comment.

"You mind repeating that?"

"Repeating what?"

Harrington shifts and sighs. The coffee stain on his shirt now a dark blue spot stretching from his breast pocket to his tie. around so that His forearm pressed his hands together, and he briefly wonders _exactly_ how much these students know about his divorce, how many others probably know about his private life, how much he had possibly overshared, before he clears his throat and uses the ragged edges of his fingernails to scratch at a splatter of whiteout on the desk's top. "I think we all, perhaps, need to speak our feelings here—" He's met with Flash's groaning, but keeps on, regardless. "Speak our feelings, and hopefully get all of this tension resolved."

" _Please_ don't go trying to play the counseling card again," Flash begs, not looking up from his book. "It doesn't work."

"I'll shed an hour off of detention if neither of you annoy me any further," Harrington adds.

Michelle's own book snaps closed.

Flash speaks up, "you can't do that. ...Can you do that?"

She rolls her eyes. Shushes him.

* * *

 

It's bad to have to spend a detention session with the one who had been involved in the cause, but the real punishment, perhaps, was having to deal with Harrington's stories, overtly redundant lectures about discipline and of thinking before you act. He tells fifteen minute long stories about a boy who acted too quickly at a school dance and humiliating himself, or a girl who didn't take care of errands when she should have and the consequences was an argument over the phone—he tells stories that were so painfully obvious self-narrated accounts about his past that it makes both students cringe.

Then he touches on a topic about for alcohol consumption—once as an underaged at a party and was taped to a wall and toiled-papered, a pretty girl drawing in permanent marker on his face a mustache, monocle, and a penis on his forehead; about years later and legal, sneaking in a flask to a public event.

Flash doesn't speak up that he remembers Harrington having being escorted out of the school's gymnasium, babbling loudly about something. There had been a banquet held there for two of the school's sports teams.

His eyes glance to his opened book bag, remembering the small cans of Red Bull hidden inside he had planned to share with his team after the game. He zips it closed.

Harrington tells to always do what their parents instruct—like leaving the porch light on, or helping them with anything, really. Lest, something happens, like, for instance, he tells, their family looses their pet cat.

He also tells to be mindful with money. Because by not doing that either, there's a chance they could lose their car, too—in the future, of course, he explains.

Michelle gives an awkward, knowing glance in Flash's direction.

This continues on with accounts that result in being banned, misplacing keychains, faking confidence and surety in front of crowds (read: classrooms) and interviews. It isn't until he's on the subject of bewailing with unruly children is he interrupted.

This time, Flash raises his hand. "What does this have to do with our detention again?"

The teacher realizes he had gotten lost in thought; he blinks, surprised.

"You said we would do whatever make-believe counseling session if we get an hour off of detention."

"Right. Yes."

In her corner, Michelle leans her head froward over crossed arms, beginning to dose off. Harrington catches her and orders her to sit up, stay awake.

Then, he begins anew. "So, Flash. Explain what started all of your—you both's rivalry."

"It isn't a rivalry," Michelle interrupts. "We just don't like each other."

The other points, nodding. "She's right. She's the worse—she's just _mean_."

"Don't agree with me. You're the enemy, you don't get to agree with me."

Before Flash could get out a retaliation, Harrington asks, "and what made all this start? Let's get down to the root of this." He scoots his chair back, tries to sit higher, and fails, the chair rolling too close and driving the edge of the desk into his stomach.

"I told you: Flash pulled at my bra strap like an ignoramus—"

"Michelle," the man stops her. "Let him speak."

Flash's _thank you_ is flattery and an obvious show for brownie points. "And like I _said earlier_ : I didn't do that."

And this time, it's Michelle who gives a cough, mumbling, _"liar"_ in-between breaths.

Flash throws his hands in the air. " _How_ am I a liar?!"

She only frowns and glares. She takes an extra moment to think of a reply. "Do you want me to answer that truthfully, or...?"

Flash has his hand out, pulling down on each finger as he spoke, counting out. "I would never lie in my life. Not about that." Two, "I'm serious; I didn't do that to you. Alright?" Three, "and still, screw you for hitting me!"

Her stomach contracts with a sharp stab of anger. Lips tightening, she refrains from speaking further as the other begins taunting her on her appearance—her unruly waves and curls, her stature, calling her the degrading nickname that's begun echoing from the mouths of his friends. It's quickly put to a stop by the teacher.

Michelle rolls her eyes, going back to her book. She hadn't gotten a lot of sleep the night before, Harrington notes, and it shows.

He asks for Flash to explain then what it was that started this whole thing.

The student says that he doesn't know.

And Michelle snorts.

Flash explains that suddenly, Michelle would sent him death glares, would flip him off un-sarcastically, would give snide comments about him. And then she would flat out ignore him.

The first time she retaliated—which was deserving, as he had nearly caused her to injure herself in gym class—was attempting to trip him down the stairs. After him bouncing off rude, hurtful comments to her and threatening to vandalize her hat that had still been on her head, the second and only other time she retaliated was punching him.

Flash ends with a spiteful slant of his mouth and a tilt of his head at her.

Michelle has her cheek in her hand. To his surprise, she looks completely disinterested.

Harrington turns to her, expectantly. She asks for clarification of the look, so he goes, "you have anything to say, Michelle?"

She sees that his brows are raised, eyes wide as an indication, an opportunity, an annoying assumption that she chooses to ignore as she asks, "so. Say if you _were_ telling the truth, Eugene—yes I'm calling you that in revenge still for earlier—say, by some miraculous aligning of the universe that you were telling the truth, who was it that day then? Because you were sitting behind me that day."

He corrects her, telling that he hadn't been sitting _directly_ behind her that day in class, when the lights were turned down low and a film had been playing, and she had gotten through the day so far without receiving a dress code violation for the open-back she had been wearing. Flash tells that _he_ hadn't been the one who pulled and snapped her bra strap against her back that day, but it had been another students he is no longer associates with.

And then the room goes silent. The fan overhead turns and squeaks. The clock high on the wall ticks, thirty minutes behind. There's a ring stain on the desk left from Mr. Harrington's coffee cup earlier.

Michelle doesn't move; her hand slides down her cheek to the front of her neck and begins messaging. Her lip juts. She looks back and forth across the classroom—they all are.

Outside, the street lights are on. Vehicles roaring through he streets could be heard, faintly. There's forty-eight more minutes left for detention.

Her voice slices through the silences. It's soft now and hesitant. "Then if you weren't the one who did it...who did? And why didn't you ever say anything?"

He shrugs. Secretly, he very vividly remembers one of the first times he approached Michelle—having been too inflated by ego and moxie, and remembering how he challenged her, and she standing up and towering over him, inviting him with, "what's good?"

* * *

 

So Michelle's shuffles through the main hallway of the school at exactly 7:58 in the morning, yawning into her fist and tugging idly at the strings of her Midtown Tigers pullover hoodie as she finishes a cafeteria pancake, dry, and spins the combination on her locker. A neon green construction paper flyer is taped to the door that she takes down to read. It's a reminder about the upcoming school dance—but she isn't going to attend, she's sure, she's positive, but hopes to next year. And it isn't until she's about to close her locker door, sidestepping a senior student coasting by on a skateboard, and dragging her fingers through the tousled, bangs that ha d n't been held back from her headband, that she hears her name being called. Approaching down the hall is Flash, she sees. He's accompanied three others, and Michelle recognizes them as others who are just as equally annoying, and equally a pain in the ass. But she doesn't pay them any mind, doesn't turn around to give them attention—but they've already spotted her, and she can hear them nearing.

One is loud and repulsive in their conversation. But as soon as he notices Michelle, mouth still full with the last remains of pancake, and wearing shorts with her hoodie, giving the near illusion that she's not wearing bottoms—this student isn't modest or considerate and he's _obnoxious_ as he greets out, "hey, Michelle! Michelle No Tits! Hey, what's goin', Tiny Tits Michelle?"

Without missing a beat, Flash thumps the other on the shoulder. He's wearing a look of disgust. "Dude!" he shakes his head. "Not cool."

"Since when?"

"Since _ever_."

The other tries to shut Flash down with mediocre excuses that are jabs at Michelle's appearance and Flash turning soft.

Michelle doesn't bother to wait or listen further, choosing to carry the rest of her belongings in her arms instead.

One of Flash's groupies sees the typography of the flyer crushed into a ball in her hand and asks if she's going to the dance.

She ignores it, closing her locker and walking to her next class. But she couldn't help to lock eyes with Flash as she passes.

* * *

 

Come next school year, while he's still pretty much an asshole, Michelle tells him freely, Flash no longer associates with the student who coined the hurtful remark about her.

And when they take a trip to Washington D.C. that same following year for Academic Decathlon Nationals, she teaches him a technique on how to win the card game Spit. She doesn't let him beat her at Uno, though.

**Author's Note:**

> **This had been intended to be a simple, almost crack ramble of a fic, but it remained a sort of exercise and exploring other characters (Michelle and Flash). but oh well i guess. Personally, I'm unsure about this and feel like it's doc, so i'm not very pleased with it. this wasn't marinated and edited as much as my other hoco fics, so i apologize.**   
>  **Shoot a complain, please, and/or critic please. You can also go there to complain to me if it's just God awful, or even not, or just for any worries. Any words, good or bad, are greatly appreciated. Comments tell loads more than kudos do.**


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